


I Will Love and Tolerate the Shit Out of You

by blue_jack



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’d thought about it, he’d imagined it’d be right after a case, when he’d be riding the high of adrenalin and success, and Steve would be buzzing from causing ridiculous amounts of collateral damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Love and Tolerate the Shit Out of You

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to lexjamandme for looking this over and calming me down. You are awesome, my dear. And the title is a quote from leupagus and it totally cracks me up.

Danny had always known it was going to happen. There were just too many dangerous situations that led to blood and bruises and hot metal in his hands, too many arguments that spanned the dumbest shit imaginable to life lessons that exposed more than he should’ve felt comfortable with. Of course it was going to happen. It was just a matter of time.

When he’d thought about it—which hadn’t been that frequently to be honest, because why spend a lot of time worrying about the inevitable—when he’d thought about it, he’d imagined it’d be right after a case, when he’d be riding the high of adrenalin and success, and Steve would be buzzing from causing ridiculous amounts of collateral damage. They’d stumble into Steve’s office, and he’d have to teach him how to use those damn blinds since Steve had long forgotten the concept of privacy after being stuck on a sub with forty or sixty or one hundred guys or whatever, and he’d pull those awful cargo pants down around his stupid work boots and blow him, painting the side of his desk with his come with supreme satisfaction. He wouldn’t even let Steve clean it up afterward.

And maybe it’d be a onetime thing, or hell, maybe it’d become a tradition, like drinks after work on Fridays or malasadas on Monday mornings, but it’d be good, fantastic even, because Steve was long and lean and apparently incredibly bendy, and those were all things Danny could work with, okay, no problem.

What he didn’t expect was to be staring at his ceiling while lying on his uncomfortable, squeaky bed, tired but not sleepy, and thinking about Steve’s doofy face, which he’d been doing with more and more frequency lately. Seriously, what was up with that guy? He had more faces than Danny had ties, and he had a lot, thank you very much, especially considering Steve had started giving him one every plausible and implausible chance he got in some sort of reverse psychology bid.

Thanks to Steve, he had a stack of thin boxes in his closet nearly waist-high, boxes because the ties were ugly, horrible, touristy monstrosities, with dancing pineapples and blinking lights and all sorts of other crap that Danny had blocked out for the sake of his sanity, and the only reason he hadn’t thrown them all out, or better yet, burned them, was because his mother had raised him right, had taught him to accept even the worst present with a smile and a 'thank you' even if that 'thank you' was sarcastic and the smile more longsuffering than happy. He wasn’t sure it wasn’t going to come back and bite him on the ass though, because during his more paranoid moments, he worried they were breeding, the stack seeming to get higher every day, and he wondered if one day he’d walk into his closet and never come out again, the victim of some freak tie-mauling that could only be engineered by one Steve McGarrett.

The same Steve who presented him with each new tie wearing what he’d catalogued as Face 17, all smirky and utterly delighted with himself, like Danny couldn’t see a mile through him. Idiot.

He scowled when he realized he was smiling.

It was all Steve’s fault, all of it, him and his stripper tendencies and elaborate tattoos and remarkable impression of an overeager puppy. Why else had he gone from occasionally fantasizing about bending him over the hood of his Camaro to lying in the dark, grinning like a sap over someone who was don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars, certifiably crazy?

He grabbed his pillow and tried to smother himself with it. When a few minutes went by and he was still among the land of the living, he sighed and threw off the covers. He obviously needed new pillows. If there’d been a 24-hour department store nearby, he might’ve gone to get some, but since there wasn’t . . .

Hell with it. He was tired of waiting.

\-----

The door was locked. Of course it was. Of course Steve would choose to listen to him the one time he didn’t want him to.

He rang the fuck out of the doorbell, taking out some of his aggression and feeling immensely better for it when Steve threw open the door, wearing Face 24, aka “I Will Kick Your Ass and Stuff it Down Your Throat in Some Improbable Feat of Physics” face.

“Hey, were you sleeping?” he asked in his mildest voice. He pointed over his shoulder. “’Cause I can come back later if you want.”

“Danny?” Steve lowered the gun he’d been holding, and _woah_ , Danny hadn’t even noticed it until that point, but why was he surprised? This was Steve. It wasn’t surprising at all.

“Okay, you, my friend, need help. I know I’ve mentioned this before, and I’m hoping, I’m _praying_ that this time you will listen, because you are too trigger-happy for your own good. I mean, I ask you, do criminals usually ring the doorbell? Do they? Maybe ask to borrow a cup of sugar on their way out? Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“Danny, what are you doing here?” he asked, ignoring his rant, because that was the way they worked, Danny talked and Steve basically just listened for his name, and it was like they were married already without the sex. “It’s almost two.”

“Almost two? That’s—that’s amazing. I totally didn’t know that,” Danny informed him, stomping his way into the house. He turned back to face Steve, who had closed the door behind him, so at least he wasn’t planning on kicking him out. Yet. “It’s not like I own this newfangled contraption called a watch or anything that not only indicates the hour and minute, but also the damn second—you know what? I’m not doing this right now. I’m not. It takes a lot of work to be this witty and brilliant. Okay, that’s not true. I’m a genius by nature. But it does take some effort to be this gorgeous, let me tell you. We can’t all fall out of bed and step into a pair of khaki pants and a different colored Polo shirt each day, all naturally and freakishly beautiful, okay? There’s daily grooming involved, a shower, a shave. I go to my closet and put a lot of thought into what shirt I’m going to wear, what tie—did you hear that, Steven? What _tie_. And just so you know, none of your art deco jokes make it on the list—”

“You don’t like the ties?” he asked with his sad pug face, because of course the only part he’d paid any attention to was the last bit. Listening for the sound of his name, fucking hell.

“I’m not here to talk about the ties. Who cares about the fucking ties—no, wait. No, Steven, _I do not like the ties_. Stop giving them to me. Although, of course, I appreciate the sentiment,” he said in a nod to his upbringing, because if his mother ever found out he’d told someone he hadn’t liked a gift, she’d smack him upside the head. “But that’s not why I’m here. And stop interrupting. I am telling you about my morning routine, because I like to look good, okay? I like to be professional and know that I look my best, and maybe recently, maybe I’ve been putting some extra effort into my appearance because I want to attract a certain someone’s interest.”

Steve’s face went blank in a way that Danny knew was really the face for “Kill, Smash, Kill,” and he rolled his eyes.

“And _maybe_ that person is you. Or it would be if I can bring myself to admit being attracted to someone with your level I.Q. The longer you look at me with that stupid expression on your face, the less likely it’s going be though, not going to lie.”

But if anything, the wide, amazed smile Steve had started to sport as soon as Danny admitted he was the one he wanted just got bigger and bigger, and Danny couldn’t stand it, could feel his own face flushing because all sorts of hopeful _feelings_ were bubbling up, so he said, “You know what? Don’t even talk; talking’s overrated. Just take off your pants.”

Steve’s shoulders started to tremble then shake as he laughed silently, but the good thing, the awesome thing was that he followed instructions for a change, peeled off his tank top and got out of his pajama pants with a speed that just proved he’d been a nudist in a previous life and stood there like a man with nothing to prove. And boy, did he have nothing to prove.

They stared at each other for a few fine, beautiful seconds until Steve asked, “You going to get naked any time soon?”

“Huh, what, yeah, yeah, of course I am,” he said, and he was not embarrassed _at all_. “Can you give a guy a second, geez. Not all of us have super mutant abilities that include getting undressed at the speed of light, okay? And maybe I wanted to bask in the moment—”

“I didn’t realize you’d be so overcome by the sight of me naked, Danny,” Steve said, folding his arms across his chest, maximizing how much muscle he flexed in the process. “This is good to know.”

“—the moment when you _actually listened to directions for a change_.” He threw his shirt at that smug “You Know You Want to Touch My . . . Six-pack” face that was both annoying and kind of hot because it was true. But mostly annoying. “Can I help it that I was a little awed? I should probably write it down somewhere—August 30th 2011, Steve McGarrett followed orders—and I don’t know, have it framed or something.”

“I can follow orders! I was in the Navy; you don’t think I had to follow orders?” Steve asked, moving closer until Danny could feel the heat coming off his body. He lowered his head and spoke softly into his ear. “Tell me what to do, Danny. Anything, and I’ll do it.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, as if he were thinking about it, but really, he had nothing. It was like his brain had stuttered, too many possibilities in too short a time crowding together. And Steve still wasn’t touching him, the damn tease, had somehow snatched control of the situation right out of his hands even though he was supposedly giving Danny carte blanche to boss him around, and he needed a second, needed a chance to breathe, so he said, “Well, you can start by backing that ass up some so I can get these jeans off.”

And what was it with Steve that he always had to try to one-up him, because instead of moving away, he slid down to his knees, and okay, yeah, Danny wasn’t really _complaining_ all things considered, and it looked like his jeans were going to come off anyway, but still. It was the principle of the matter.

“That’s not what I asked you to do,” he said, and it wasn’t fair that his voice was that strained, but he’d challenge anyone to keep his calm when Steve was down on his knees, rubbing his cheek— _finally_ with the touching—against the steadily growing front of his jeans.

“I’m just anticipating orders,” Steve murmured, looking up at him through his those damn brushes he called eyelashes, and it was porn, it was like his own personal, wondrous porn seeing his lips move on him. “Any man worth his salt would do the same.”

Fuck, he was so fucked, Danny realized as Steve dragged his tongue up over his cock through the jeans, eyes gleaming, and it couldn’t have been very tasty for him, because denim, yuck, but it was a visual banquet for Danny.

It wasn’t that he’d thought he’d be in charge once things got to the bedroom—okay, maybe, maybe he’d kind of assumed he would, what with the whole Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell thing and Steve being all Mr. Boy Scout All American—but he hadn’t expected him to . . . well, to be . . . _woah_ , he thought, as Steve undid the button with his fingers and pulled down his zipper with his _teeth_ all the while looking at him. Steve was a _dirty_ bitch.

Steve’s shoulders started shaking again, his breath puffing against Danny’s boxers in a very distracting and enjoyable way, and he realized he might have said that last bit out loud.

“Okay, do I have to teach you everything?” he asked as Steve finally got around to pushing his jeans and boxers down, and he knew he was talking mostly to hear himself speak, but that was alright, ‘cause he had a lovely speaking voice, gravelly and very masculine. It wasn’t like he was _nervous_ , who got nervous over sex for the first time with his best friend and boss whom he saw every fucking day and spent all his time with? And sure, he’d known it was going to happen, this thing between him and Steve, but now it was _actually happening_ , and he could damn well talk if he wanted to. “You do not get near a guy’s junk for the first time and _laugh_ , Steven. That is not something you do—”

“I don’t think it’s junk, Danny,” Steve said, eyeing him appreciatively. “I think it’s first-rate.”

“And now with the jokes! You do not laugh, and you do not make jokes—didn’t I tell you to stop talking? I distinctly remember telling you to stop talking.”

“Are you suggesting I should do something else with my mouth?”

“And that right there would be one of the reasons I told you not to talk. Seriously, okay, how do you ever get laid?”

“Let me show you.”

And that was an obvious warning, a fuck ton of warning really, so there was no reason for him to be caught off-guard, but he was, bending over Steve’s head with a loud grunt as he deep-throated him smoothly.

“What the hell, haven’t you ever heard of subtlety, taking things slow maybe?” he croaked, straightening back up and spreading his legs for balance, all the while sending up prayers to various saints that he not humiliate himself by either landing on his ass or coming before the one minute mark. “Of course you haven’t, what am I thinking? You don’t have to throw yourself head-first into every situation you know, and yes, I do appreciate the irony of that statement, thank you.”

It wasn’t like he’d intended to give him extra ammunition, but Steve laughing while he had Danny’s cock in his mouth? Holy fuck.

“A little wine, some dinner, maybe catching the game on the tube with a few beers in hand, a guy likes to feel special, you know?” He literally didn’t know what the hell was coming out of his mouth at that point, but he also was damn sure he didn’t care. Hopefully, Steve wouldn’t even be able to hear him considering the depraved noises he was making, like he was having the time of his life. Seriously, porn star material, Navy SEALS edition. It’d probably have a cheesy title like BUTT/S Training: How to Take it Like a Man or something equally horrible. “Not just jump into bed as soon as he gets in the door—”

Steve pulled back just enough to say, “You were the one who told me to take off—”

“What did I say about you and talking, huh?” And he did _not_ squeak when Steve got back to business, that time with a little teeth, which Danny would never have said was a kink of his in the past, but _damn_.

He would’ve liked to say he lasted a lot longer after that, but really, he was proud of himself for hitting two minutes—he hoped it was two minutes anyway. He might have been counting fast—especially considering how fucking single-minded Steve was about the whole thing, like the fate of the world was at stake if Danny didn’t come right then and there. The bastard wasn’t above cheating either, adding a little finger action at the end, and it was his knee injury that made his legs buckle when he came and not what Steve was doing, no matter what he thought. He didn’t hesitate to inform him of that fact either once he could form coherent sentences again, still a little woozy but relatively stable, even if he just wanted to fall onto the nearest horizontal surface and wallow in the afterglow.

“Oh, so that’s what made you grab my hair and fuck my face, too?” Steve asked, his voice attractively hoarse, and shit, they were doing that again and soon, although from the look of things, they might have to take care of Steve first, which was a hardship, but he would deal somehow.

“Nah, that part was on purpose,” he said, because it wasn’t like they both hadn’t enjoyed it, Steve’s hands urging him on. “But what with chasing perps all over the damn city and leaping over buildings in a single bound trying to keep up with you, my knee’s been acting up lately, and after all that standing around—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Steve asked, lips that were still red and swollen spreading in a smile, and there was a new face, there was Face 56, “It’s Too Late to Run, and I’m Gonna Fuck You _So Hard_ ,” which was very similar to Face 12, “You Can Try to Run, but I’m Gonna Fuck You Over So Hard,” but with a sexual connotation, which Danny appreciated.

“No, no, I do not, fuck you very much,” he said, but his voice sounded disturbingly fond rather than irritated. “You better be careful, Steven. I distinctly remember you promising to do anything I wanted. You do not want to get in trouble with me, ‘cause I’m not done with you yet.”

“Yeah? Let’s see what you got,” he said, and he was laughing, but whatever, what the fucking ever, because he was tugging him toward the stairs, looking absurdly happy, and that was alright with him.


End file.
